Theme

Display Mature Content

Suppress AI Content

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/Reflection-of-the-Bleeding-Sun-293051100kajigoddess

Deviation Actions

orice zi incepe prost

florian-lipan

$1.00

Download

More by kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/Marin-Karin-526114097kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/Flower-and-Koi-59067580kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/Let-me-eat-that-for-you-412429196kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/Portal-to-the-Meat-Dimension-527569991kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/View-from-the-Castle-130529097kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/Protect-What-You-Love-73731439kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/Walls-of-Paradise-Page-1-149877330kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/The-Whale-175522353kajigoddess

kajigoddess on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/kajigoddess/art/The-Young-Man-and-the-Tower-91058047kajigoddess

Suggested Deviants

brassteeth

Literature

The Farmers Son

We sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges like the smoke from some great unseen inferno, the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us in low groans, of the wind coming up hard, through the valley, and there was flickering light from a candle, and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm and I believed that part, and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms or any question a farmers son could ever

Literature

Late Afternoon, Dublin

Kingdom I sit on the slippery stone steps, at the gates of my Father's heaven. My back to the cold wall enough, that men in dusty pants and mud-laden boots can thump past, their tired, weary legs fly fast across my freckled face. Father inside, far end, a stool-throned King, his face not fat but swollen, and sometimes our eyes meet through cloud and darkness, when the door swings open to let another thirsty angel in or out, for in this chamber, the trip from Hell to Heaven is measured only by the length of a glass of dark ale or a honey coloured shot of sour whiskey. Outside Angie skips back and forth across the

Literature

Forgiveness Economics

Genesis But for the small purple stain on its border, the banknote was non-descript. It had a value but men value things in different ways and by different means. It had a value, but its value is not it's story. It landed on the church plate face up, coming to rest softly on the flat silver base amongst the loose change like it was tossed to the cloth of a gambling table, soundless but with a small sense of resignation. A man paying for luck, a man asking his God for a favor. It came from the wallet of a small sad man, who feared the Good Lord daily. The banknote was the weekly price of his penance, the bill of sale for those half-remembe

HaveTales-WillTell

Literature

Actinium Dreams

Y'all have any idea how downright frustrating it is to be the granddaughter of one of the most powerful and celebrated superheroes ever — Ulysses Randall Martin, the iconic Mr. Uranium — and yet have no special talent of your own? I mean, it's not like I don't have my own elemental superpower: like almost all of Grandpa's progeny, I do. But how much good is the ability to produce hard-hitting Alpha and destructive Beta rays if you can barely control it and never quite turn it off? At least I'm not as bad off as my son Frankie; I love him to death, but when left alone the poor boy is totally unstable and downright dangerous: the wor

Literature

Alzheimer's

His house is made of crumbling slats of rotted knotted oak peeling paint and weakened joints. The wind blows unfettered through unshuttered apertures dragging fresh sunlight in and memories away. Even on the clearest days he visits the front porch less and less often. He prefers to explore those rooms further in where tide and time have yet to reach.

Literature

Who Cares About...?

WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR MISTRESS' EYES? (A Rebuttal to Shakespeare's Sonnet CXXX) Why should it matter in the least if her Lips are coral red or pale pink? If suntanned breasts are worrying you, sir, You need your head examined, one would think. And you honestly believe her cheeks and hair Detract because they differ from the norm? I doubt you'd find another who would care; For as they are, they are indeed well-formed. As to her breath and voice, I will concede That reeks and rasps as adjectives fit well; But Listerine will satisfy her need, And huskiness in speech, a flaw? Do tell! You love her, faults and all, or so you've said—

riparii

Literature

The Death of Venus

If there lived in the world a man as rugged and as strong as I, who could forbear with me yet go against, who walked the black woods and the silver hills mostly unafraid-- who savored salt and the lay of fur with fingertips of dirt and weather, whose lips rolled words like smoke, like fog- I would creep into his arms in the prologue of the night, gone sweet with the scent of new-cut hay, alive with the nightjar's call.

Literature

Subtraction

When the scything was not yet done she sat, a run of sweat between her breasts, a nascent blister on her palm-- before she took the whetstone to the blade. Lower down the hill the horses grazed, tails brisk against the flies, coats damp in the torpid air. Robbed, she was. The day was loud with birds and bugs; the mowing smelled like lust or love, depending. She sat and watched the silver sky and felt the wetness dry along her ribs, along her thighs and tired arms. She watched the swallows courting. One plus one.

Literature

Fall

For a while it will seem as if I was never coming back, like summer or a childhood dream. Your toes twist in the September sand and the chill reminds you that some thoughtless time, some apple-scented eve the old dog will growl low, the night shadows stir; moths will dart desperate through an open door-- and you will watch solitude disappear like broken, restless love.

Suggested Collections

Poetry

Literature

Ich bin

Ich bin, der kommt, ich bin, der geht, ich bin, der immer schon hier war. Ich bin, der wacht, ich bin, der spricht. Ich bin der Hauch vom letzten Jahr. Ich bin die Nacht und bin die Früh. Ich bin der Mond (die Sonne nie). Ich bin das Wort, ich bin das Buch, ich bin, der all die Worte sucht, bin der Fürimmer, bin der Moment und der die Zeit manchmal verpennt. Aber ich bin. Ich bin der, alles, der nirgendwo zu Tod betrübt und liebesfroh. Ich bin, der kommt, ich bin, der geht, ich bin, der immer bei dir war: Ich bin der Wind in deinem Haar.

Literature

A Sudden Flight

Ink-black birds scatter, Writing lines of free verse Across a paper sky.

GhostOfTheEmptyGrave on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/ghostoftheemptygrave/art/Existing-848491101GhostOfTheEmptyGrave

poetry

Literature

Featherdance (Poem)

Listen closely, and you may hear The sound of sacred fire. Its ancestry flickers in a thousand Colors, all within the hearts of unborn heroes. Somewhere deep inside legend, A fringed master slumbers. Its breath sequesters beneath its beak As it dreams in molten gold. Six score, it has lain in wait For its kaleidoscopic guardian. A spirit akin to its veined own, In suit and solemn as he. The skies grow dapper without The grace of its marbled wings And the elegance of the feathers That heal the lame and the ungainly. Its dogs look toward the heavens, Listening for its sacred fire. The hours and the days atrophy And crumb

Literature

Lavender Town

What is that? What do you hear? You look as if You've seen a ghost. Let them speak to you; All their tormented souls Wish is for a living heart To become one with theirs. The plague of sorrow racks These doleful townsmen, As they wander vacant streets With hunched shoulders. He is crying for his mother; Can you feel his tears? You cannot, for you—you— You are like all the others. Please, be their guest, And let them creep beneath your skin. They mean you immortal joy, And no harm shall haunt you. No harm shall haunt you, But they shall instead, Their stoicism patient as they Wait for you to crumble. He is

Literature

Trust

Trust. It's something earned, Not given. It's like an ember of my heart, Placed inside yours To hold and protect. Extinguishing it or throwing it away Will break our bond, It may never be repaired. Don't try to steal an ember, For it's not rightfully yours Until I personally place it in your chest. Once it's there, It grows and strengthens Until it's a fire. A fire of trust That can't be extinguished That can't be thrown out. It will always be there, Linking me to you.

poetry

Literature

Despoema de amor

Deveria lhe compor versos perfeitos Que homenageariam todo seu ser Te diria que o meu sonho é te ter Mas fico com preguiça e não faço tais feitos Diria que desbravaria todo o mundo Somente pra defender seu nome Só que eu esqueci dele, to usando um pronome, Então é melhor guardar isso num buraco fundo Doaria pra te uma parte de mim Se necessário até meu coração Mas na hora do transplante eu daria uma de fujão É melhor a essa estrofe eu dar um fim Falarei então que até Lua eu te daria Mas agora de me lembro de um problema: Não consigo nem sequer puxar

Literature

Desire

Your smooth skin, It drives me crazy I want to touch you, And just maybe, You...will let me... The look in your eyes, It really drives me wild I shouldn't be surprised, That you're so tempting... You are all I can see... Desire... Taking over me Desire... Controlling me I can see... The light in your eyes, Every time you see me... The beads of perspiration, Are rolling down your face As you look away, I lean in for a little taste, Because you let me... I can see your curves, Move underneath your shirt And I can't place a price, On what this moment's worth... So revealing... Desire... Taking over me Desire... Always controlling me I can s

Literature

Our Last Kiss

If I had known that it was our last kiss, I would have inhaled you deeper within me. If I had known that it was our last kiss, I would have seared your taste onto my tongue. If I had known it was our last kiss, I would have scorched your scent into my skin. ... If I had known, I would have frozen time ...

Reflection of the Bleeding Sun

kajigoddess

Published: Mar 30, 2012

169 Views

Description

I got a Wacom Connect tablet as an early birthday gift, thanks to my best friend in the entire world! <333 This is my very first drawing done on one, yet another of the "Bleeding Sun" series. I know you guys haven't heard much from me lately, but not to worry! I still have ideas! Perhaps I will want to express them more often with this tablet! >D

Image size

576x793px 69.69 KB